


Faded

by Casafrass



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Let It Be era, M/M, McBeardy, Mcstarr - Freeform, depressed paul, you know it’s gonna be angsty lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 19:53:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21185084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casafrass/pseuds/Casafrass
Summary: On a blustery November night in 1969, Paul calls Ringo.





	Faded

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t been writing much but here’s a little piece I’ve been toying with for a few weeks. Feedback is always appreciated <3

His eyelids are a sickly orange color that bleeds into bruising purples and angry reds. Sleep has escaped him every night for the past year. 

Well, maybe he was able to sleep. Once. He doesn’t quite remember. 

Every morning, Paul stares at the matted jungle that covers his face. He promises himself that if today is good, he’ll shave it all off so he can finally see his mouth when he smiles. Tonight, he purposely breezed past his profile framed in silver, mounted on the wall in the foyer. 

Another promise broken. 

Linda’s away in America, visiting family.   
It’s up to Paul to keep himself upright if he doesn’t want to choke on his thoughts.   
They swirl in his head and simmer like an inky soup, seeping into all the crevices of his brain. Sometimes he thinks he can shake them out but then they collect in his irises and run through his sinuses, rotting his gums and blocking his windpipe, until all he can taste is blackness. 

The scotch glasses were a gift from John. He’d said that since they were famous, they’d have to start buying each other real presents. 

That was nearly seven years ago. 

John hasn’t gotten him a real present in a long time. 

One drink turns into four and then Paul’s heavily supporting himself on the couch, his brain itchy, tongue too heavy for his mouth.

It’s so dark in the house. Is it always this dark?

Blindly, Paul reaches for the phone. His hand slips and he makes a slow attempt to grab the receiver as it clatters to the floor.   
Like molasses, he drizzles down to the floor and rests his cheek on the carpet as he carefully dials. 

It’s even darker with the side table blocking what little moonlight streams in from the windows.   
Paul pushes himself up and fumbles for the lamp switch. The decorated lampshade makes shadows dance across the walls but Paul’s eyes won’t adjust. The shadows are like gray hands reaching out, fingers cold and indifferent like a noose.   
Paul’s mind is racing faster than he can keep up and every thought rattles around for a moment before falling out of his ears.   
His brain is muddled, yet it’s the only part of him working properly. 

He manages to get the right numbers and listens to the coo of the outgoing call. 

The ringing is like a siren song. Paul shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like he’d answer at this hou—

“‘lo?”   
“...Ritchie?” 

Silence. Paul wonders if Ringo counted a measure before answering.   
“Ye’, ‘s me. Alright, Paul?”   
His head thumps back down onto the carpet, like his neck just gave up on supporting him.   
“I don’ know.” The way he slurs makes it sound like he just said ‘no.’   
Paul hears the click of a lighter. Oh, he’d love a smoke right now but his bones feel like quicksilver, sinking into the floor until he disappears forever.   
An exhale. “Linda there?”   
Paul sighs heavily, wincing at how defeated he sounds.   
“No. Visiting her mum. There’s no light here.”   
“So turn on a lamp.”   
“I did. Not as bright all by m’self.”   
“Okay.”   
“Sometimes the light doesn’t turn on at all.”   
“Mm. We’ll call the electric company ‘n the mornin’.”   
“Morning,” Paul echoes. He picks at a loose thread in the carpet.   
Sober Paul is going to be _pissed_ in the morning.   
“Thanks f’r pickin’ up,” Paul says, resting his eyes for a moment.   
“I’ll always pick up for you, Macca.” The name makes Paul’s eyes smart.  
“They wouldn’t.”   
Paul runs his fingers through his beard. He hadn’t had the energy to shave it off. 

Maybe tomorrow.   
He knows it won’t be tomorrow. 

“They would. ‘f they thought you really needed them.”   
But he _does_ really need them. Can’t they see that?  
_“Do I need anybody? I need somebody to love,”_ Paul sings instead, horrendously off-key and slurred.   
Ringo chuckles.   
“Sing it, Rich! ’s yours!”   
Ringo breathes a whispery laugh, and Paul shivers. It reminds him of yesterday, when they were sleeping in those mangy beds, packed like sardines into what was probably a supply closet. And they couldn’t speak a lick of German but Ringo laughed that same laugh when he... when George... when John...  
_“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.” _  
Ringo’s rumbling baritone interrupts Paul’s yesterday.   
_“Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends.” _

Paul hums, rubbing his eyes. He’s always liked that song. They were high as anything during the majority of that album. Paul kind of wishes he had a blunt right now. He’d probably do something even more boneheaded though. Like call one of them.   
“Wish I didn’t care so much. They aren’t caring. Havin’ the fuckin’ _time of their lives.”_   
“You’re keepin’ us together, Paul.”   
“No, I’m not.” Paul’s speech is surprisingly clear but he’s fiery. He knows when he’s being lied to. His hand aches from how tightly he’s holding the receiver. If he lets go, Ringo might just hang up on him.   
“I’m not— I can’t. I thought I could but it’s all goin’ away.” A few tears leak out. Paul feels the weight of inky black settling over him again. 

“Ritchie, ‘m scared,” he whispers suddenly, fear climbing up his throat like acid. 

The wind is shaking the trees and rattling the windows. Paul wishes Linda was here. 

“Don’t be scared, luv. I’m right here. ’s alright.” 

The roar of the world outside is deafening. Paul wonders what would happen if he died right there, with Ringo on the phone and his bones melting into the wood. 

“Paul? Still there?”   
“Yeah.” His voice cracks.   
“Don’t drink anymore, alright?”   
“Okay,” Paul whispers. 

He swallows and traces the scar on his upper lip with his tongue. He remembers how for a moment, it’d felt like he was flying before he’d kissed the ground and his tooth chipped and cut through his mouth. The doctor fellow had pushed through the wound with little else than whiskey and dental floss.   
John had winced every time he saw Paul’s cut, touching his mouth gingerly and asking, _“does it still hurt?”_ And it did still hurt but Paul said no anyway, for John’s peace of mind. Maybe for his own too. 

“We’re not comin’ back,” Paul says, and he knows it’s true as soon as the words leave his mouth. 

“They still love you. I love you.” 

Paul pushes himself upright. The thoughts are putting pressure on his head again. He has to make sure he doesn’t choke, no matter how tempting that may be. 

“’s dark, Ritchie.” 

“I know, Paul. I know.”


End file.
